


The Old Custom

by Jade56



Series: The Family of Lord Lestrade [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Consensual, First Time, M/M, Polygamy, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest (sort of), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: In a medieval land where siblings can marry the same person, the Holmes brothers are obliged to follow this tradition. Sherlock wants nothing to do with marriage, however, so when Mycroft falls in love, they both know nothing will come of it. Besides, who would want to marry Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?





	

“Sherlock, I assure you, I have no plans to fall in love anytime soon.”

“You have to promise, Mycroft!”

“In that case, brother mine, I promise.”

Sherlock kicked his feet, which dangled over the side of the boardwalk. They were over a stream, which emptied into the bay that defined the port city they lived in.

“It’s a stupid tradition, anyway,” Sherlock said. “I’m not even going to have kids. Kids are annoying.”

Mycroft was standing with his hands behind his back. Though only a young man, he already held ambitions for a place in the queen’s government and he carried himself in a fitting manner. He smiled, peering directly at Sherlock. “At the moment, I am inclined to agree with you.”

Sherlock snorted.

The sun had just set. Really, Mycroft ought to be putting Sherlock to bed, but today, after their parents had explained the family traditions to Sherlock, Mycroft thought that he was justified in speaking with his younger brother for a little longer.

“Though that hardly matters,” Mycroft continued. “Even if you do not have children, Sherlock, you will have an heir in one form or another.”

“Why don’t you just take everything? I don’t need the house or the money. I’d rather be left with nothing than be expected to march to the altar with whatever detestable creature strikes _your_ fancy.”

Mycroft sighed. Regardless of what Sherlock thought now, he was only a child. He could not possibly fathom the necessity of their family custom. Mycroft, however, understood. Certainly, there was the issue of inheritance—of keeping their wealth intact within a single family while also ensuring that it was equitably shared by both children—but honour was an even greater issue. It would be a disgrace to the Holmes name if they could not uphold the family tradition. Such an embarrassment could keep their family from ever moving higher in society.

“Sherlock.”

He gingerly placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, and tried not to let his hurt show when Sherlock did not look back at him.

“Sherlock, I will never marry anyone but the person whom you fall in love with.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with anyone.”

“Then I will never marry.”

Now Sherlock did turn to Mycroft, with such a look of awe on his face that whatever hurt Mycroft felt floated away. “You can’t mean that. You can't be okay with that. You’ll change your mind, later.”

“Brother dear, I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Ugh. You’re so soppy, Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, but the stars that were beginning to emerge revealed a hint of a smile on his young face.

“Besides, we are far from being of the friendly, sociable type. Nobody in their right mind would consent to marry the two of us.”

“Yeah!” cried Sherlock, cheerfully. “There’s no one in the whole world who could put up with you constantly being a know-it-all.”

“Or,” Mycroft added, without missing a beat, “who could abide by your persistent lack of good manners. So you see, there is nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and Mycroft was at ease with the thought that Sherlock was going to be all right.

True, it was a little disheartening for Mycroft, who had once thought he might enjoy finding someone to spend his life with, to accept that he might never have such an experience. But it made him more than happy to do what was best for Sherlock, and truthfully, he could not argue that he was anyone’s ideal husband.

Sitting next to Sherlock and listening as his younger brother told him about the stars—what one would need to know to sail by them, at any rate, because this was knowledge every aspiring pirate ought to be familiar with—Mycroft was content.

Nobody could be trusted with his precious baby brother, anyway.

~~

After Sherlock entered adulthood, he and Mycroft moved into another home—to help prepare them for married life, their family said. They knew that Sherlock was reluctant to marry, but they were of the opinion that he would change his mind. Mycroft knew the chance of that was extraordinarily small.

It hardly mattered that they shared the same home. They came to keep such different hours that they did not often see each other. Mycroft had little time to spare for his younger brother. Though not nobility by any measure, the Holmes family had always been well positioned in the merchant class, and this had been enough to help Mycroft attain an apprenticeship and then a modest post of his own in the local government.

Mycroft resolved, for not the first time, that as soon as he had made a place for himself, he would devote his attention to Sherlock.

Being of common blood, Mycroft could not expect to ever be appointed to a high position in the city, at least not normally. But all that he needed to do was demonstrate to the queen that he was indispensable, and then the queen would personally appoint him to a role of power.

Today, finally, an opportunity had come. An envoy from the queen would be inspecting the mayor’s agents. Mycroft would show this envoy how clever, and essential, he was.

Mycroft forgot these plans when, while sitting at his desk in the government office building, he saw the man who was being welcomed by the other officials.

The visitor was a well-dressed man with a confident gait ( _nobility_ ), whose skin was tanned and who smelled faintly of salt ( _just came from long journey overseas_ ), who wore a broach with the queen’s initials on his shoulder ( _royal envoy_ ). His shining hair smoothly reflected candelabrum light ( _handsome_ ), his dark eyes smouldered like firewood ( _magnificent_ ), and the resolute tone of his voice could hardly disguise the playfulness underneath ( _he’s talking to you, idiot!)._

“—been going alright over here?” the attractive man was asking.

“Yes, sir,” Mycroft managed quickly, summoning all his concentration to speak without stammering. “Of course, sir.”

Suddenly, it occurred to Mycroft that he had forgotten to stand in the royal envoy’s presence. Cursing himself inwardly, he rose from his seat, and bowed.

With a hand on his hip, elbow pointed back, the envoy was startlingly informal as he graced Mycroft with an easy smile.

“No need for that,” the man said. “A handshake ought to do it, eh?” He offered his right hand. “I’m Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft recognised the name instantly. Anyone, even Sherlock, would know the name.

Not sure how to proceed when greeted so casually by such a prominent lord, Mycroft lightly shook his hand. “Mycroft Holmes. I am the head customs agent here.”

“Hmm. That’s quite a job, in a port like this.”

“It is a minor position, Your Lordship.”

Finally, Mycroft remembered his plans. He had to impress the queen’s representative.

“But I have made much of the import process more efficient, which has increased the utilisation of our harbour.”

“I’ll be checking on that for myself,” the nobleman said. “But judging by the look of you, I don’t doubt it.” His smile had just a hint of something new—amusement, perhaps? Whatever it was, it only made him more beautiful.

How could Mycroft be expected to discuss customs regulations, or anything else, with a man who charmed him completely with just a smile?

Fortunately, the nobleman had to excuse himself to personally meet with the mayor. Mycroft had the chance to recover his breath, which he had somehow lost simply by talking to the visitor.

Mycroft knew better than this. He should have no interest in Gregory Lestrade, a noble who, for all his alarmingly informal behaviour, could never return a commoner’s feelings.

More importantly, he had to think about Sherlock. Nothing in life was more important than Sherlock. No, Mycroft could not entertain any fanciful thoughts about the prestigious inspector.

Though, perhaps, if Sherlock met this noble and fell in love with him, all three of them could be together. Maybe Gregory Lestrade was a man who could be trusted with taking care of his dear, precious Sherlock?

Hurriedly, Mycroft dismissed those shocking thoughts, absurd as they were.

He shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. This man was just a passing fancy. Mycroft had only greeted him for a few minutes, after all. He didn’t know anything about Lestrade. He was probably not worth knowing. There was no reason to worry.

~~

“I saw you by the docks today,” Sherlock remarked, from the table where he was working.

Sherlock was often experimenting with alchemy, though sometimes he produced medicinal potions that could be sold at market. This was one of those medicines, according to the awful smell.

“Must you make that in here?” Mycroft was removing his boots as he entered their home.

“You were playing sycophant for a nobleman. I don’t know why that surprised me.”

“I was explaining our customs procedures to the queen’s envoy.”

“I never said you weren’t. That’s not all you were doing, though, was it?”

“There is nothing wrong with demonstrating one’s usefulness to one’s superiors.”

Sherlock capped the bottle of his latest concoction, though unfortunately the smell lingered.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “you certainly did seem intent on demonstrating your usefulness to that man in particular.”

Mycroft sincerely hoped that didn’t mean what it might. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’ve never looked at anyone the way you looked at him.”

“Well, of course. Do you know who that man is? He is the cousin of Queen Sally. Impressing him could mean great things for us.”

“You’re not fooling me, Mycroft. Everything you’ve said just confirms it. You didn’t notice that I was at the docks! You hate when I go there. You would’ve called me out in an instant, if you hadn’t been mesmerised by this cousin of the queen. Really, I never imagined you had a penchant for the royal type.”

For all his professional interest in the matter, Mycroft hardly cared about the nobleman’s title. Who could possibly care if that congenial man was royalty or not? He would have been as charming in a labourer’s tunic and breeches.

The mental image conjured was more agreeable than Mycroft had anticipated. It was all too easy to imagine what the nobleman would look like in common clothing, lifting heavy cargo onto a wagon or setting the timber frame of a family home.

Lord Lestrade had been in the city for a few weeks now, and had joined Mycroft on his rounds enough times for Mycroft to glimpse the honest tenacity that dwelled in the other man. If he were a labourer, he would be sweating and grunting in his work, beautiful in his exertion and determination…

“Pathetic,” he heard Sherlock grouse.

“Damn,” Mycroft muttered. The nobleman was having a terrible effect on his concentration, and he knew that Sherlock was too perceptive to miss it.

Bitterly, Sherlock asked, “Would you like me to describe your beloved in more detail? Maybe it’ll give you ideas for the wedding.”

“I will not pursue such a thing. There is no reason for you to worry.”

“Why should I believe that?”

Mycroft loved his brother dearly. He wished he could do more to prove to Sherlock that he would not be pressured into an unwanted marriage.

Sitting on a chair, Mycroft motioned for Sherlock to take the other close to it. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock did so.

Mycroft folded his hands on his lap, and leaned closer to his brother.

“If you truly think that I have feelings for Lord Lestrade, then already you know there is no cause for concern. He is far above my social standing.”

“I saw the way he walked with you,” Sherlock muttered. “He doesn’t care that much about social standing. He treated you like an equal.”

“That sounds like it should be a compliment. And yet, you must not have a very good opinion of him.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re afraid of him marrying me, and, by the old custom, you.”

“You shouldn’t marry _anyone_.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “ _We_ shouldn’t. I don’t care who it is. It’s best if it’s just the two of us. Though sometimes I think it’s just me, alone in this house!”

“Sherlock.”

He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and it felt very familiar. It was easier, this time, to bear the way Sherlock looked at the floor, though it was not altogether easy.

“Sherlock, I’ve told you that I will never pursue marriage for my own sake. I intend to keep my word. And as for the two of us… Anything could happen to you, brother mine. If I have enough power, I know I can keep you safe.”

“You’re still so soppy,” Sherlock muttered, perhaps a little fondly.

Everything was right in Mycroft’s world, now. “But perhaps I could take some more time out to babysit you.”

“I don’t need babysitting! I’m an adult, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I’m afraid you had me fooled.”

Mycroft had no regrets, then. The nobleman might still be in his thoughts, but he had Sherlock, and that was the most important thing.

Sherlock sat up from his chair, stepped the short distance to Mycroft, sat on his brother’s lap, and buried his head in Mycroft’s shoulder, embracing him.

Surprised, Mycroft began, “Sherlock…?”

“Shut up. I’m hugging you. Don’t ruin it.”

Deeply moved by this, Mycroft patted Sherlock’s back. He had no regrets at all, not when he could hear so much relief in Sherlock’s voice.

“I hope I don’t see you by the docks again, Sherlock.”

“How else am I supposed to become a pirate?”

~~

Mycroft would never betray Sherlock. However, it seemed that the world neglected to inform His Lordship that he should stay away from Mycroft Holmes.

The inspection of government operations in the city concluded in a few weeks, yet the nobleman persisted in returning. He said that operations were conducted very smoothly in their port, and he wished to study them further.

That should have meant that he would spend time with a variety of officials in the city, yet he lingered far too often in Mycroft’s office, inquiring about trade or simply telling Mycroft about what he had seen in his travels.

If only he was annoying, or boasted of his accomplishments, or tried to belittle Mycroft’s wit, or did anything that would stain him in Mycroft’s eyes. But Lestrade was not so merciful. He openly admired Mycroft’s intelligence, and his honest manner somehow made Mycroft feel strangely comfortable around him.

If Mycroft had once been professionally interested in impressing him, that interest was long gone now. It had been replaced by a little happy jump he felt in his chest whenever the nobleman visited his office.

At night, he would think of Lestrade. He resolved to not give in to his baser impulses, and sometimes, he succeeded. But when Sherlock was not in the house, and Mycroft thought of how the nobleman had smiled so easily at him, as if he wasn’t trying to gain something from Mycroft, as if he wasn’t intimidated by him, as if he simply enjoyed Mycroft’s company, the older Holmes brother couldn’t help himself.

A switch might as well have flipped in his body when he imagined Lestrade murmuring comforting things to him. Thoughts like this left Mycroft dazed and hot and trembling, and he could hear the disgraceful noises of his own ragged breath. He cried the nobleman’s name, the sound muffled against his pillow, just in case Sherlock sneaked quietly into the house.

It was relief, if not long-lived, and it was idiotic, because, in that lonely bed, the emptiness Mycroft felt ached even more than it had before.

Surely Lestrade was amiable to everybody and had no special interest in Mycroft, but what if he would be willing to welcome Mycroft into his bed for just one evening? It was marriage that was barred from Mycroft; couldn’t he have what he wanted for just one night?

Mycroft imagined how it would feel after that night, knowing that he would never have another one like it his whole life. What torment it would be, to be held in the other man’s arms one moment, and to be tossed aside the next.

His duty to Sherlock was everything. There could be no pursuit of romance or passion, but there could be dreams. Night was his time for fantasy, and Mycroft gave in. In the privacy of his mind, he could imagine that the family traditions were different, and that Lestrade loved him. He could believe in the impossible.

~~~~                                                                              

Sherlock had known for a very long time that Mycroft would never marry for himself. It was an axiom, a fact that would be absurd to question.

It had been certain, until now. Sherlock could not recall a time when he had witnessed his brother so obviously infatuated.

Sherlock had gone to the marketplace to trade his potions for a lock-picking kit, and stayed when he noticed that Mycroft was there, standing with the man Lestrade. Lestrade pointed at various booths and asked questions. Mycroft would nod or shake his head and provide answers.

The nobleman really was pathetic. How could he fail to notice the veneration in Mycroft’s eyes? Mycroft was gazing at Lestrade the way one admires a striking flower that is close enough to see, though still out of reach.

Mycroft was being foolish. As long as he never sought a spouse, then Sherlock would not be expected to follow, and they could stay brothers without anyone intruding. Mycroft’s interest was merely superficial, of course, and his attention would move on to something else soon enough. His life would be best without involvement from someone as commonplace as the nobleman.

Sherlock looked more carefully at the man in question. It was interesting that Lestrade was not dressed as well as his title would suggest. The formality of his clothing was on par with Mycroft’s. But that did not necessarily mean that the man was modest or unassuming. Perhaps he simply preferred to walk through the city without being bothered.

He also had no guards for protection, and there was a sword at his hip. He could protect himself. That was mildly impressive, though he probably used it for brawl fights or some such barbaric thing.

Sherlock decided that he ought to speak with Lestrade himself. His judgment wouldn’t be clouded, so he would see Lestrade for the oaf he was, and he could show the truth to Mycroft.

It was easy for Sherlock to follow the two, and eventually, when they parted in front of Mycroft’s office, Lestrade walked back toward the busier part of town. No doubt he was intending to indulge himself in all manner of frivolity, as Sherlock would expect of any boring nobleman.

Lestrade did enter a public house, one that was more pedestrian than a typical member of royalty would prefer.

Sherlock followed.

The nobleman was sitting in the corner, probably about to order a drink. Or possibly he had already quickly consumed one. The energy that had emanated from the man every instant he had been with Mycroft had dissipated, and now he was hunched over the table, glancing at some of the other patrons.

“Sitting alone?”

Lestrade was startled by Sherlock’s sudden approach, and turned to him quickly.

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” Sherlock said, as a flirtatious suitor would, “but it seems a crime that such a handsome man should have to sit by himself.” It was true that Sherlock could see why his brother found Lestrade attractive, at least.

“Look, mate, you’re a nice-looking bloke, but don’t bother. I’m spoken for.”

“No, you aren’t,” Sherlock remarked. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring. It is true that some married individuals do not wear weddings rings, but you are of a very high social standing, making a ring almost mandatory.”

“You think I’m a noble, huh?”

“Of course you are.” Admittedly, Sherlock knew of this before, but even if he hadn’t, “Your clothes are simple, but not often worn. If you were a commoner, you would wear those clothes often. You must have many ensembles at your disposal. As I was saying, you are not married, but you could be attached. Then why are you, a nobleman, in a pub alone? Are you waiting for your partner? No, you would be looking at the door. Instead, you are looking at the other patrons, specifically, the couples. You want what they have. You’re not spoken for.”

“Uh… I can’t argue with that,” Lestrade conceded. “Not bad.”

“Then you can let me buy you a drink.”

“Fine. Just one. Don’t expect anything.”

If nothing else, a small amount of alcohol would help Sherlock learn more about this man. He returned swiftly with the drinks, eager to investigate further.

“Why did you tell me you were spoken for? I would have thought differently since you are here, but I suppose you are not very interested in commoners.”

“That’s not it,” Lestrade answered sincerely, surprising Sherlock. “To be honest, there’s another man, though we aren’t together, or anything like that. He probably doesn’t think much of me. He’s a clever sort. Like you, a bit.”

This was interesting. “Like me?”

“Yeah. Come to think of it, he’s tall like you, and fair-skinned.”

“Then I must be your type,” Sherlock said softly, inching his hand forward to touch Lestrade’s. “How much does this man mean to you? A noble such as yourself, you could have your pick of anybody.”

Lestrade grinned at him. Sherlock smiled, figuring this meant that he was right and Lestrade had no deep feelings for Mycroft—but then the noble spoke.

“Thanks for the drink, mate.” Lestrade pushed Sherlock’s hand back. “But you wasted your money. Clever and tall only gets you so far. This bloke’s got class—and I don’t mean the kind you think I have. Plus, he’s gorgeous beyond belief, and he could make a kid’s bedtime story sound sinful with that voice of his. He’s worked for what he has, he knows damn near everything about everything, and I can tell you one more thing: he’s too good for me.”

Sherlock was stunned. It almost sounded like Lestrade truly cared. “Clearly, I don’t stand a chance.”

“Damn right.”

“You love this man,” Sherlock dared to add, fishing for more data.

“You would too, if you knew him.”

Sherlock smiled. “Let me buy you another drink,” he said.

“What? Why? I’m not interested, mate.”

“I know. I see that, of course. I make the offer merely as a friend.” He was shocked and fascinated by what he had learned up to this point. Sherlock could only imagine what else Lestrade could tell him. “A man should not suffer heartsickness alone.”

Lestrade relaxed in his seat, as if the offer was enough to give him some relief.

“Thanks, then. You’re not so bad.”

~~

Sherlock stood on a boardwalk over a stream that led into the harbour. A rope had been installed since he was a child, which he now leaned on.

He and Mycroft sometimes walked through this spot. The smell of salt and the sound of leaves rustling gently in the wind reminded Sherlock of the warm feeling of knowing his older brother was watching out for him. Sherlock generally pretended that the attention meant little, but he had craved it often and craved it still.

As long as Mycroft never pursued marriage, Sherlock would not be expected to as well. He would never need to learn to live with some dull, boorish person. That much was true. But something else mattered to Sherlock: as long as Mycroft never married, he would always have time for his younger brother.

Sherlock had believed a third person would be a drain on their lives. They could do without someone who would make demands and try to mould the Holmes brothers into more typical, acceptable spouses.

He hadn’t thought that Mycroft’s little infatuation might be something more—that he might truly long for someone, or that the object of his brother’s affections might be a decent individual who might even make Mycroft happy.

“I’m going to be married,” Sherlock admitted to the stream, which only made the sound of gently flowing water in return. The younger brother felt resolute, and terrified. He had made his decision.

There was no way Mycroft could be convinced to marry for his own sake, not after the promises he had been compelled to make because of Sherlock. Mycroft would only marry some person that Sherlock fell in love with. How could Mycroft’s happiness be arranged for, then?

Sherlock smirked.

Make Lestrade fall in love with Mycroft’s younger brother, obviously.

Then, by the family tradition, Mycroft would be expected to marry Lestrade, and that was the desired end, wasn’t it?

~~

Sherlock needed no more convincing of Lestrade’s feelings, though the man needlessly continued to demonstrate them. Lestrade had moved to the city on a permanent basis (to meet foreign dignitaries traveling through the port, Mycroft had told him, having been completely persuaded by the transparent excuse) and often sulked over a drink in a public house.

He wasn’t exactly in his element in a pub, but if Sherlock was to resolve the situation that, if he was being honest, his own selfishness had contributed to, Sherlock needed to be there, with the nobleman. He even had an enjoyable time, occasionally. Lestrade didn’t mind when Sherlock said something clever, and he had to hide his smirk behind a glass when Sherlock deduced somebody else.

Then one night, Lestrade gave Sherlock the opening he was waiting for.

It was after Sherlock had sharply deduced the failings of a suitor, who had been pursuing Sherlock a bit too tenaciously. The man, enraged, had almost started a fight, but Lestrade slightly bared his sword, and the coward fled.

“You tore him apart,” Lestrade had marvelled, approvingly. “My goodness! I can imagine you and Mycroft deducing a man together! He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

There it was.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, with a grin.

“Oh, uh, the name of, well, you know. Damn. I didn’t mean to say his name. Shouldn’t gossip like that.”

“I’m glad you did say his name. It was most illuminating.”

“Oh God, don’t tell me you know a Mycroft? There can’t be that many.”

“We’ll see. Is his name Mycroft Holmes?”

Lestrade’s face fell. “Please, Sherlock, don’t tell him. He would never work with me again if he knew.”

That much was probably true, Sherlock thought, though not for the reasons that Lestrade believed.

“You should have told me his name before,” Sherlock said. “It means that you are available to me after all, if it would suit you.”

“What are you on about?”

“In fact, it would be to your advantage. Any partner of mine is destined to be a partner of Mycroft’s.”

“Hold on, Sherlock. What did you just say? A partner of yours…?”

“Will be a partner of Mycroft’s. Our family follows the tradition of fraternal polyandry.”

Lestrade’s eyes opened wide. “He’s your brother?”

“Is that really the most surprising element of what I just told you?”

“He’s your brother,” Lestrade murmured, dazed, “and you… you’re still interested in me? That…” He shook his head. “That doesn’t seem fair to you. You’d regret it. You’re just fine, Sherlock, but you know I’m in love with Mycroft.”

“I’m not in love with you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There aren’t many tolerable people in this world, and I’ll take one when I see one.”

“Oh. I’m _tolerable_.”

“Yes. It is high praise. You… aren’t an unattractive man, Lestrade. And even if Mycroft is not more intimately drawn to you, I’m sure he’d not mind your company. Would it be acceptable to you,” he ventured to ask, in the best seductive tone he could fabricate, “to spend your days with Mycroft, and your nights with me?”

Sherlock didn’t truly know if he was ready for that. These things were always unclear to him. In any event, it wouldn’t matter when the time came and the truth was revealed. For now, he only needed to convince Lestrade that he really wanted this, and really, he did want it.

Lestrade hesitated. He wasn’t eyeing Sherlock with revulsion, at least. If anything, he was looking inward, though at what, Sherlock could only guess at. The man needed some guidance, clearly.

Leaning forward, not too much, but enough, Sherlock whispered, “You don’t like that idea? He may not be one for the softer emotions, but Mycroft is such a devoted brother, you should know, and he does appreciate the things that are useful to him. I think you would enjoy it, Lestrade. Satisfying Mycroft’s beloved baby brother, knowing that you were pleasing Mycroft by servicing his brother so well.”

The sound of Lestrade’s breath catching was loud to Sherlock’s ears, and the man’s eyes were suddenly darker than Sherlock had ever seen them.

Sherlock had been expecting that, but the way everything abruptly grew much warmer and his own trousers suddenly felt tighter took him entirely by surprise.

He pushed those strange feelings down in himself, far away where they could not confuse him.

“What do you say, Lestrade?” For all his effort to ignore the bemusing pang of desire his own words had fomented, Sherlock sounded too genuinely interested to his own ears.

“I’ll consider it,” Lestrade said at last, and his voice was rough with his consideration.

~~

Sherlock left the pub early that evening. It was too bewildering to be around Lestrade.

If all went according to plan, then Lestrade was going to have what he desired most soon, and so was Mycroft. This should have been a mere fact to Sherlock, and its details irrelevant.

Instead, he pictured his big brother lying, like the lazy sloth he was, in the noble’s plush bed, beckoning to the noble himself.

He thought of Mycroft undressing himself for the patient, kind, loyal man who had captivated him, and of Lestrade losing his patience for once, disrobing the prim and proper Holmes, and touching him in ways that made him beg for more, all his propriety forgotten.

Sherlock could almost hear a voice, a familiar and trusted voice, moaning the nobleman’s name.

The younger Holmes could join the picture, couldn’t he?

Oh, it wasn’t right—it wasn’t done, even when two brothers married the same person—but he could.

Slowly, he would wrap his arms around Lestrade, whispering encouragements into his ear while he unbuttoned Lestrade’s trousers. Sherlock wanted to bring him to the height of need, telling him of what could be, so that Lestrade would be desperate to have Mycroft.

He wanted to crawl to his dear brother’s side, and tell Mycroft exactly how he looked, how every line in Mycroft’s body was taut with the need that only Lestrade could satiate. Sherlock wanted to be a good, helpful little brother.

It was clear to Sherlock that he couldn’t let his thoughts wander any further if he wanted to make it home. Fortunately, after a lengthy sit on a bench and several breathing exercises, he was fit to walk again.

He knew his feelings were unusual. It would have been normal for him to fancy his intended, and to be unhappy if his brother received the greater amount of their spouse’s time. It was most assuredly abnormal to fancy his intended and his brother in bed together! A proper brother wouldn’t feel these things.

Sherlock, being accustomed to missing the mark on what was proper, came to terms with his feelings by the end of his walk.

“Sherlock.”

Mycroft approached him immediately when Sherlock entered their modest home.

“I know where you have been, Sherlock. I should have learnt of it before, but now I know. You cannot deny it.”

“I don’t need to deny it. I can have a drink if I want to.”

“You know what I am referring to,” Mycroft said, his tone serious. “You’ve been spending time with Lord Lestrade.”

“Lestrade can also have a drink if he chooses.”

“You’ve seen each other many times, I’ve been informed.” Crossing his arms, Mycroft glared suspiciously. “You’re not trying to scare him away. You’re courting him. Is it for my sake, Sherlock?”

Sherlock had seen this coming, so he effortlessly acted like he hadn’t. “Hmm?”

“You pity me, Sherlock. That must be it. I don’t need your pity. I will not let you marry for my sake.” With far too much sympathy, in Sherlock’s opinion, Mycroft said, “You do not need to do this for me, brother mine.”

Casually, Sherlock removed his coat, and tried very hard not to look at Mycroft. “Don’t be so self-absorbed. Everything isn’t about you. I like Lestrade. He likes me. He’s quite besotted with me, actually.”

A wince was quickly suppressed when he heard his brother’s sad sigh.

Sherlock was exploiting a weak spot of Mycroft’s now, which allowed Sherlock to fool his so-called clever older brother. For all his confidence in some parts of life, Mycroft could be terribly insecure, so he would believe that Lestrade would find Sherlock to be the more appealing brother.

“Then, Sherlock, truly, I am happy for you.”

Mycroft was doing an awful job of hiding his sadness as he spoke. Sure, there was happiness there, as he would be genuinely happy for his brother. The combination of the two didn’t make Sherlock feel any better about this part of the plan.

~~

Lestrade proposed—to the older brother first, as was the custom—and Mycroft, wearing a stoic expression, consented to the marriage.

Sherlock almost gave everything away. He saw that it was a heartbroken Mycroft that agreed to be wedded to Lestrade. There was nothing Sherlock could do yet, however. Mycroft would never believe that Lestrade was in love with him, or that Sherlock had come to love Lestrade in his own way. Mycroft would be the selfless, sanctimonious big brother he always was, and would call off the wedding.

There was no more Sherlock could tell Lestrade, either. He could take no chances. He simply agreed to the proposal posed to him.

Surprisingly, despite the misapprehensions they were under, Mycroft and Lestrade both appeared to be happy during the wedding ceremony. Mycroft, with a sincere if small smile, congratulated Sherlock on finding someone he loved, and such a splendid person in particular. Lestrade seemed content to gaze at Mycroft the whole night, basking in the light of what he was now allowed to be always near, if not to be closer than that.

Lestrade first exchanged vows with Sherlock, and then with Mycroft. When the last words were uttered, not a moment too soon, Sherlock had the urge to dance around the room and tell everyone about the delightful trick he had just played. However, the game was not yet complete. It would be unkind, and unnecessary, after all, to let their delusions continue any longer.

~~

“One of the servants told me that you wished to see me here,” Mycroft said, closing the door behind him as he entered the nobleman’s bedroom. The ease with which Mycroft adapted to life with servants was remarkable indeed. “I must ask, why? I’m sure you and Lord Lestrade will wish to be alone shortly.”

Sherlock had also asked for Lestrade’s presence, but through a less diligent servant, so that he could first speak with Mycroft.

Sitting on the lavish bed, Sherlock patted the space next to him. “Do sit, brother dear.”

“I’ll stand, thank you. Lord Lestrade’s bed is… not my place.”

“Lestrade would be very sorry to hear you say that.”

“I very much doubt that. And why not call him Gregory, now that you are married?”

“Hah! You still call him _Lord Lestrade_.”

“It’s not me he loves.”

“Mycroft, he’s dreadfully in love with you.”

Mycroft chuckled, without mirth.

“It is kind of you to try to console me,” he said, “But you should know better than to think that I could believe something so ridiculous.”

Sherlock stood up and faced his brother openly. “I’ve been deceiving you this entire time. I knew you wouldn’t marry anyone for your own sake, so I pretended to court Lestrade. I deceived him, as well. The truth is that you idiots are both pitifully in love with each other.”

Mycroft didn’t look convinced. “Why would you do such a thing? You always loathed the idea of being married to someone of my choosing.”

“You are hopeless without him, and he is… not a bad choice. He won’t make demands of me. If I wished, I could distance myself from married life while still keeping up appearances.”

“I don’t believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock slowly walked around Mycroft, and then lightly placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What if I was telling the truth, Mycroft? Then you would already be undressing yourself for your new husband, wouldn't you? Would you lie on the bed and touch yourself while you waited for him?”

Mycroft, red-faced, gasped sharply. “Sherlock!”

Fear of rejection spiked in Sherlock’s chest, but he steadfastly ignored it.

“I want to help you, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s hand slipped down to touch his brother’s. “I know how much you need Lestrade, and how much he needs you… It makes me feel things. Strange things,” he said quickly, hoping that Mycroft would overlook this strangeness in his brother. “Will you let me help you?”

Mycroft’s hand tightened its grip on Sherlock’s.

“What exactly do you intend?” Mycroft whispered.

Could it be that Mycroft was starting to believe him, little by little?

Sherlock guided his brother to the bed, and once there, lying back on the bed, Sherlock directed a bewildered Mycroft further, to lie on Sherlock’s chest.

Confused, Mycroft looked up at his younger brother. “Sherlock…?”

“Never mind me,” Sherlock said quietly. “Close your eyes.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

“If you would be so kind,” Sherlock added.

At last, Mycroft closed his eyes. Sherlock thought his brother looked very beautiful at that moment. He must have thought very often of the love of his life, but he was so devoted to Sherlock.

Sherlock held Mycroft supportively, and was gratified when the older brother made a soft, surprised, affectionate sound in return.

“I had no idea that touches like this meant so much to you,” Sherlock noted, with fondness and amusement. “I imagine you’ll be a writhing wreck when Lestrade has his way with you.”

This startled Mycroft, apparently, since suddenly his wide eyes were staring at Sherlock. He had crossed his legs slightly, in a pitiful attempt to cover up the effect those few words had on him.

“Please, Mycroft, eyes closed.”

After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft obeyed once more.

“Is that…?” Mycroft began, letting his sentence taper off. He needn’t have said more; Sherlock could feel the stirrings in himself that were mirroring developments in his brother.

“Yes. There’s something wrong with me. I like the thought of you with Lestrade. I like it too well. Small detail, of course. But… I understand if you think I should leave.”

“You couldn’t possibly…” Mycroft sounded shocked, but, to Sherlock’s relief, not disgusted. “You couldn’t possibly be lying about that. About any of it.”

“Ordinarily,” Sherlock replied, “it’s you who plays these kinds of tricks with people, but… I think I did pretty well, don’t you?” Sherlock shyly kissed Mycroft on the side of his head. “Brother dear?”

“Sherlock…”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sherlock, but it’s not too late. We can get an annulment. Or a divorce, if necessary.”

“Oh, no, Mycroft, I’m not sorry about that.”

“Then what are you sorry about?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “that I love the thought of Lestrade giving my dear brother everything he wants. You want him sorely.”

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft said quietly, but with a passion he clearly could not hide.

“Desperately.”

“C-Constantly…”

“Now you’re in his bed.” Sherlock touched Mycroft’s hip, smoothing the fabric with his palm, encouraging his brother’s legs to part. “Married to him.”

Mycroft moaned, parting his legs, and starting humping the air in a slow, restrained, embarrassed rhythm. “S-Sherlock…”

This time, Mycroft clasped Sherlock’s hand, and held him for support.

“Please, tell me it’s all true, Sherlock.”

“It’s all true. The man you’ve pined after longs for you, and… and your little brother wants to be here for you.” Sherlock’s voice was soft. It was frightening, to admit so much. “He wants to watch his big brother fall apart at the hands of his beloved.”

Mycroft hid the side of his heated face against Sherlock’s shoulder, and whimpered.

A weight had lifted from Sherlock’s shoulders. He didn’t repulse his brother. His brother accepted him.

“Sherlock, forgive me,” Mycroft pleaded. He was lowering his own trousers, which seemed to have become terribly uncomfortable now. “God, forgive me.”

When Mycroft started trying to relieve his ache in his own hands, Sherlock felt ashamed for watching, yet he could not stop watching, nor could he keep from encouraging his brother with awed murmurs.

“Holy hell,” they heard Lestrade rasp.

He had been closing the door when, evidently, he noticed what was happening on his bed.

Sherlock felt Mycroft stiffen with panic, but that was all right. Sherlock would make sure his brother was cared for.

“Oh please, do come in, Lestrade,” Sherlock greeted warmly. “Mycroft was just thinking of you. As it turns out, he’s wanted you all this time. Isn’t that interesting?”

“Y-You knew he was coming! You are an ass, Sherlock!”

“Tell him how much you want him, Mycroft. Tell him you want his mouth upon you, right this instant.”

“Of course I do, but he doesn’t want me!”

Lestrade came nearer.

“G-Gregory?”

“Mycroft,” he breathed, “can I?”

“Y-Yes, if you would like,” Mycroft answered, full of doubt.

Sherlock tried to stay silent, though the tension between these two men made something burn strangely in his chest.

Whatever it was, it dropped out in his stomach when Lestrade moved Mycroft’s pliant legs to be parted once more, and tasted what was waiting for him.

Mycroft cried out. He was trembling, overwhelmed. His hands found a new home in Lestrade’s hair, and clearly struggled not to grab too hard.

The scene took Sherlock’s breath away. Moving as if on their own, his hands settled over Mycroft’s, giving him support.

“S-Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped.

“Just like that, Lestrade,” Sherlock managed, close to being overwhelmed himself. “He loves it. He’s aching for it. For you.”

Judging by the way this affected Lestrade, Mycroft could not expect to last long.

He didn’t. It was over with a loud, unintelligible cry. Lestrade was greedy, and eagerly swallowed what he was given, taking his time to be thorough.

Despite the intense, inexplicable energy thrumming through his body, sadness descended over Sherlock, when he realised that he would need to leave and see to himself elsewhere. As understanding as Mycroft and Lestrade had been, it was unlikely they would tolerate him taking such a liberty.

Mycroft was just starting to come back to himself when he noticed Sherlock moving as if to leave.

“My brother is in need of attention, Gregory,” Mycroft sweetly, astutely observed. “Would you like that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock couldn’t believe that it would be allowed. He nodded swiftly, glancing desperately at Lestrade.

If those burning eyes were any indication, Lestrade didn’t object.

Their clothes were discarded instantly, and with the purposeful hands of his brother’s beloved around both of them, at once, Sherlock found his peak quickly. Lestrade followed soon after, at about the time when Mycroft commented on what a pretty picture they made.

Everything was perfect.

When Sherlock at last looked at his brother, he found Mycroft blushing hard. Sherlock was stuffed with pride, knowing his big brother had enjoyed what he saw.

Lestrade was eyeing Mycroft with much less confidence.

“I don’t know how Sherlock got you, well, riled up like this,” Lestrade said, sheepishly cleaning himself up, “and this was great. But I get it. You’re not the emotional type. We don’t have to do anything romantic. I can go now.”

“I love you, Gregory.”

Lestrade’s expression was stunned for an instant, his mouth open in surprise, and then a bright smile broke out on his face. He instantly embraced Mycroft, who also seemed delighted.

“ _Finally_ ,” Sherlock muttered.

“Did you hear that, Mycroft?” Lestrade asked, laughing. “I think your brother likes this. I have to admit, I never took you for the pervy kind, Sherlock.”

“It runs in the family.”

Mycroft blushed harder, and Lestrade laughed some more.

Sherlock felt at home.

~~~~

Many people congratulated Greg on his marriage. His husbands were from a lower social class, but anyone who truly knew Greg knew that he didn’t give a toss about that. The sheer gratitude he felt when Sherlock explained why Mycroft had hidden his feelings for so long, knowing that he had somehow won Mycroft’s heart _and_ gained Sherlock’s approval, made the concerns of other nobles look like so much rubbish.

A few who had known Sherlock or Mycroft were brave enough to ask: how can you stand living with _two_ of them?

Greg thought of carrying a blanket to share with Mycroft, his love, and sitting with him in front of a fire, listening as Mycroft told him about his day and feeling blessed that Mycroft was comfortable simply being with him.

Greg thought of riding horses with his friend and the brother who meant so much to Mycroft, Sherlock, who could hardly stay on his horse one day, and within a week was telling Greg how he was doing it wrong.

And then there were the things they got up to behind closed doors, the things that made Greg’s heart beat faster at the slightest recollection. Of course, he knew better than to talk about just how different the Holmes brothers were.

So when people asked him how he could stand it, Greg hardly understood the question. Living with them wasn’t all that hard. Actually, it was pretty damn wonderful.

~~

The fire had gone out long ago, moonlight shone into the room, and it seemed that the whole world had gone to sleep, save for the two men lying together on the sofa.

Mycroft was fortunate enough to be resting against the chest of the one he had so long pined for. Gregory was speaking, calmly, about the happenings of his day, and all the while, Mycroft could hardly follow along, for the disbelief that this life was his own, the insecure feeling that it was not meant to be, and the secure feeling of Gregory’s arms around him were all far too distracting.

“Hey, Mycroft, are you okay?”

It took Mycroft a regrettably long moment to realise that a question was being posed, so fascinated was he in the gentle and easy manner with which Gregory spoke to him.

“Hmm?” he responded, at last. To his credit, Mycroft soon found the presence of mind to add something coherent. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Well, you’ve just been sort of quiet, I suppose.”

Unable to keep a self-conscious smile off his face, Mycroft was suddenly grateful that he was not facing Gregory at the moment. It was absurd that he had been so obvious.

“Please forgive me, Gregory,” he said, searching for an excuse for his unsociability as he spoke. “It seems that I am still adjusting to my new circumstances.” That was certainly true, at least. “There is much to think about. I have become the spouse of a nobleman, after all.”

At this, Gregory hummed thoughtfully. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, actually. I know there’s probably a lot about this that’s new to you. All the invitations and visitors, and that sort of thing.” He took a deep breath, and started again at a faster, almost nervous pace. “When someone like me gets married, the spouse often gets dragged into society events, and public appearances, you know, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to change your life for my sake…”

“Gregory, do not worry about that.” Mycroft said, grateful that this was something he could address, and struck with the need to comfort his husband. He was able to overcome his self-consciousness, and turned to face Gregory. They were very close together now, and he could not help but note that some of that self-consciousness returned at the abrupt reminder of Gregory’s handsome face. “I,” he started, and spotting the light of interest in beautiful eyes, was blessed with the nerve to continue. “I understand that there are duties to be performed by a noble’s spouse, and I had already suspected that I would need to give up my position in the customs office. Doing so will not be difficult. There is no reason for you to feel that you are imposing upon me.”

He was speaking honestly, as he truly had anticipated this. That the tasks of a nobleman’s spouse would fall to him had seemed obvious to Mycroft, so obvious that he had thought it hardly warranted discussing, though he had evidently failed to anticipate Gregory’s concern and compassion.

“Oh.” Gregory looked stunned, and then he laughed, a sound that Mycroft greatly enjoyed hearing. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“That’s a relief, if I’m being honest. I didn’t think Sherlock would be up for that stuff. He doesn’t seem like he’d care for a society ball, or anything remotely close to that type of thing.”

Mycroft admired his beloved a moment longer, and though he had not yet had his fill of Gregory’s easy smile, he feared making his husband uncomfortable, so Mycroft soon settled back against him, returning to the position he had been in before. “I think you’d be right.”

“Well, that was surprisingly easy.” Gregory made himself comfortable against Mycroft, and clearly felt at home just as he was, which brought more than one flutter to Mycroft’s heart. “I’d been dreading talking to you about the society stuff.”

“Oh? I am very sorry to hear that,” Mycroft said, and he meant it. “Did I do something to make you nervous about speaking to me?”

“Are you kidding, Mycroft? I love talking to you, and now that I can tell you everything I think about you, I want to talk to you all the time.”

Touched, Mycroft closed his eyes, and smiled with all his gratitude. Maybe, impossibly, this life had not been given to him by mistake. “You are far too kind.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t you that made me worry about it. It’s the fact that being a noble makes everything so complicated.” He was lightly drumming his fingers on Mycroft’s arm, and did not seem to be aware of it, though Mycroft did not mind in the least. “I lost friends when I inherited my title, as a matter of fact. I used to be really close to one of my mates in particular, but well, that changed when I came into my title.” There was a long sigh. “He didn’t even come to the wedding. There were lots of important people there, but he was the one I really wanted to see, aside from you and Sherlock, of course.”

Mycroft gently took hold of Gregory’s drumming hand, and held it with all the support he could give. “I am sorry that he was not there.”

The hand returned Mycroft’s grasp. “Thanks. I don’t think he meant anything by it, though. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just felt unwanted. My being a noble made him feel that way, I think. Like he wasn’t good enough for me. That’s ridiculous, though. I don’t know how anyone could think they weren’t good enough for me. I’m hardly anyone’s idea of a prestigious noble!”

Gregory chuckled for a moment, though the usual cheerful tone of his laughter was missing.

“For goodness’ sake—I never figured out how to dress like one, I’m no good at talking like one, and the proper titles and the right silverware and all that is really more than I can ever remember. Did he really think he wasn’t good enough to be my friend anymore because he’s a writer and I’m a nobleman?”

Moved by this plight that Gregory had clearly carried with him for some time, Mycroft tightened his grasp of Gregory’s hand, wishing he could do more for his beloved.

“Well, maybe having a title isn’t so bad,” Gregory said, a touch of happiness brightening his voice, “if it helped me impress you.”

Though the sentiment was charming, Mycroft was alarmed by the implication. “I assure you, Gregory,” he was swift to say, “that such was hardly necessary. While I may have had a professional interest in you when we first met, I forgot about that rather quickly. I was truly taken with you,” Mycroft admitted, pausing for a moment as he felt the weight of the confession even though they were already married, “not your rank.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t think you were! Still, that’s very sweet.”

“In fact, there were times when I considered you in a different position in life. I fancied a thought of you as a labourer, once.”

“Oh?”

Instantly, Mycroft’s eyes widened, for it had suddenly occurred to him that he was saying too much. The fantasies that had previously kept Mycroft company could not possibly be appropriate to share, even with the spouse he had so often thought of and continued to think of.

Of course, this was bound to be a problem when he lived amidst the glow of Gregory’s patience and kindness. It was only a matter of time before the comfort of his husband’s presence lulled Mycroft into such carelessness that he ruined everything.

“Well, I did have feelings for you, Gregory, for a long time, and so I did occasionally think of what might be, of ways we might be together, and, I mean to say, I am sure you can imagine,” Mycroft murmured, hoping his tone of finality would end the conversation. “It would be inappropriate to say more.”

Gregory kissed Mycroft’s cheek, and it was all Mycroft could do to try to hide his face, to hide the blush that undoubtedly coloured his features.

“Maybe I _can_ imagine,” His husband whispered, with a wink. He moved so that he could let Mycroft lie down on his back, and the blush deepened when Gregory leaned over him, a solid and comforting presence, one of his legs over Mycroft. “So, a labourer, huh? Was I tough and strong? An honest man of the earth, am I right?”

The room was starting to feel considerably hotter, but all Mycroft could think about was how kind and forgiving Gregory was. “One m-might say so,” he answered, unsteady under the powerful influence of such closeness.

“With clothes to match, and I bet they fit me a little snug, didn’t they?” When this provoked the guilty evidence of a smile that could not be concealed, Mycroft’s blushing cheek was graced with a kiss once more. “You don’t mind this, do you? Is this all right?”

His willpower diminished, and diminishing further, Mycroft admitted softly, “Absolutely all right.”

As if he did not already have Mycroft completely in his power, or was unaware that he did, Gregory gave him an adorable pleading expression. “Would a kiss on the lips be all right, too?”

Mycroft was charmed to his depths. “Oh, well, if you wish…”

Cheerfully and sweetly, Gregory gave him a kiss, and Mycroft was more than happy to take part, despite the effect that this was having on his impolite body. Mycroft would be loath to expect any favours from his husband, but the warmth building in his heart and body under Gregory’s touch was becoming difficult to ignore.

For better or worse, the kiss was brief, with Gregory soon pulling back to grin at Mycroft.

“Did you ever picture doing that with the man you imagined?” Gregory asked. “Ever think about kissing the honest man of the earth?”

“Oh, I, well, possibly.”

“Did it go a little like this?” Gregory kissed him again, with greater passion, filling Mycroft with another bloom of warmth, and doing that much more to make him ache for his kind husband.

Breathing more quickly than before, Mycroft whispered, “Possibly.”

Gregory was looking very pleased. “And did you think of him, _possibly_ , telling you that he loved you?”

Their gazes met, and Mycroft touched Gregory’s smiling face, letting all his longing be made clear through the gentle touch.

Mycroft’s voice was still a whisper when he answered, “Certainly not.”

Confusion swept over Gregory’s features. “No?”

“I could not have imagined anything of the kind.” The touch trailed down Gregory’s face, reverently. “I pictured sharing a single night with you, and that was the only night we could ever have.” Turning away slightly, Mycroft looked off, remembering his dreams. “Because of my obligations. At least, that was possible. I could not be a true partner to you, for a number of reasons, but, in that absurd dream, I could at least imagine that you would give me a single night.”

“Mycroft…”

“I never imagined love, Gregory.” He met Gregory’s eyes once more, unable to keep his secrets from this trusting, accepting man any longer. “Perhaps knowing that will help you see why it is so hard for me to believe this, now—to believe that I am here, with you.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” Gregory murmured. “Sure. Thank you. That means a lot, all of it.” Giving Mycroft an undeniable reason to feel grateful, he didn’t move away. He stayed where he was. Actually, his legs entwined further with Mycroft’s, as if they might meld together, making Mycroft’s heart leap in his chest and affecting his body in other ways. “I loved you for a long time, too. God, I wanted you so bad.”

Mycroft knew he shouldn’t have felt the surge of joy that those words brought to him, and he knew he shouldn’t inquire. That would be selfish, and insecure, and… “Did you?”

“Definitely. How could I not? You were always gorgeous, and then, once I got to know you, I saw how considerate and sophisticated you were—I didn’t stand a chance. I had my share of fantasies about you.”

Selfish. Insecure. “Such as?”

“They were simple things, really. I thought about you being on my sofa, like you are now.” Looking awfully pleased, Gregory added, “And with me like this.” Mycroft couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath when Gregory kissed his neck, or the little lovesick jolt in his body when strong hands started travelling leisurely around his waist. When they came to rest on his hips and softly stroked there, it was a whimper of want that could not be helped.

His whimper was so loud that he could have sworn that there was a small echo, or that his voice carried, since for a moment he thought he heard a noise, though his musing on his smitten whimpering was cut short by Gregory’s leg gently, smoothly rubbing against him.

“Oh, dear me…”

“I pictured you just like this. You’re amazing, Mycroft.”

“Gregory… This is more than I ever thought I could have. If only Sherlock were here with us on this sofa, then this would be perfect.”

After hearing this, Gregory stopped what he was doing.

Disastrous! How had Mycroft let those words slip out of him? Understanding that he had finally said too much, Mycroft was filled with regret for what he had said and shame for what he had felt. Now Gregory was going to dismiss him, of course.

They had shared some intimate evenings, the three of them, usually with Gregory obliging one brother and then the other, but there was no reason to believe that Gregory had previously realised that Mycroft enjoyed the entirety of these evenings.

It was one thing to become excited by the sight of his beloved with another man, but to carry thoughts of Lestrade being intimate with his younger brother, to imagine such a thing and enjoy it outside of the situation that made it acceptable, would have to be too much for even his courteous husband.

“I only meant that he means so much to me,” Mycroft tried. “I am sorry. I should not have said anything.”

“Huh? Don’t be sorry.” Unbelievably, that familiar, easy smile was there. “Believe me, I’m not upset. I’m happy about it.”

“You’re not horrified?”

“Not at all. You did mean that you wished Sherlock were here, while we’re doing this? While I’m touching you like this?” Lovingly, without judgment, Gregory stroked him over his clothes.

Mycroft’s half-restrained gasp of pleasure revealed his shameful feelings. “Oh, please, Gregory, don’t stop… Please, don’t hate me.”

“Hey, Mycroft, it’s fine! I think I’d like that too, in fact. Do you think we could put on a special show for him, sweetheart?”

“Oh, Lord…” It was not an easy task to form words when Gregory was speaking like that and touching him that way. “D-Do you think he would like that?”

“He liked it before, didn’t he? If he does, then that’s great, and if not, then there are plenty of other things I can do for him.”

“Gregory… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mycroft. Don’t worry. God, you’re so beautiful.”

From the edge of his vision, which was mostly focused on the handsome face of a caring husband, Mycroft noticed Gregory’s hand slipping into his trousers, though he hardly needed to see it to know what was happening.

“Gregory,” he breathed. “Perfect.”

“I bet Sherlock would love to see this.”

Imagining his innocent, adventurous, vulnerable little brother watching in fascination had a powerful and inexcusable effect on the older brother, who grasped Gregory in an attempt to keep himself from shaking. “I’m sorry…”

In a manner that was very reassuring, Gregory kissed him. “Relax. There’s no harm in it. You want to make sure Sherlock is happy. You want him not to feel left out. I don’t see a problem with that at all. I’m happy doing anything for him.”

Finding it difficult to think of reasons why this was wrong under his beloved’s kind attention, overcome with feelings for his husband and brother that were confusing but nonetheless warm and pleasant, Mycroft decided that everything could be all right. He would always care for Sherlock, and he had become close with someone who could be trusted with his precious brother. The three of them could all be happy together, a belief that made him lose more of his control to Gregory’s murmuring voice and dependable hand.

~~

Sherlock steadied himself, one palm flat against the wall, the other covering his mouth to keep any whimpers like his earlier one from betraying him.

So closely attuned to the room around the corner had he become that every gasp coming from his brother and each whisper from the nobleman were all too loud, and though the fire was on the other side of the sofa, it seemed to Sherlock that he could feel the heat on his face.

He could not make out the words that were murmured on that sofa exactly, but that was appropriate. It was obvious that whatever was said between them was meant for the two of them alone. They were entwined with each other, where they belonged. It was telling enough that Mycroft had not noticed him at all—that was evidence enough of the profound effect that Lestrade had on Sherlock’s ordinarily perceptive brother.

None of this was shocking. It had been obvious for a very long time that they were deeply attached to each other. The two of them were happy together.

Sherlock had been wrong to think that he was at home here. There was no need for Sherlock in this place.

It was generally true that they tolerated his presence. Lestrade was sometimes generous enough to give him attention when he saw to Mycroft in such a fashion. However, they really would be happier on their own. This time, Sherlock wouldn’t be a bother.

As quickly and quietly as he could, he ran off, trying not to think about what he had heard. He had heard his brother, who had long protected him and cared for him, and his brother’s beloved, who was truthfully a kind and intriguing man in his own right, loving each other and sharing soft, devoted tones of affection. These were the things he endeavoured not to think about, yet they were all he could think about.

He had not been aiming for any place in particular. Since he ended up in front of the study, where a respectable library was kept, and this seemed as good a place as any to not get in the way, he entered the large room.

A book was pulled from a shelf at random. Finding an armchair that would serve one person comfortably, and a small blanket thrown over the arm of the piece of furniture, Sherlock took his place there.

He was acutely aware that he was the only person in the room, with only a blanket wrapped around him and a book in his arms.

Sherlock shook his head, and opened the book.

“If they don’t need me,” he muttered to himself, “then I don’t need them.”

The problem was that he knew this wasn’t really true, since he was trembling under his blanket at the vaguest thought of Mycroft coming undone under Lestrade. Mycroft’s voice was so familiar and yet unfamiliar when he was gasping from the pleasure that Lestrade gave to him.

Though he had escaped to the study, the little that Sherlock had managed to hear still made him shiver with an indescribable longing, and what he had not been able to perceive was eagerly supplemented by his imagination.

He attempted to lose himself in fiction, the book having revealed itself to be about an explorer in the mountains, and did not succeed. As his eyes roamed over the pages, he seemed to gather nothing at all.

This book, then, he decided, was defective. He tossed it aside and found another, one that he had read before and liked, which could take his mind off certain people who had no use for him.

The printed words on the pages drew Sherlock in, wrapping him in a blanket of another kind. It was an interesting novel, one concerning a pirate who came to form an unbreakable bond with his crew.

At last, his eyes moving back and forth, and his mind being welcomed into the story, Sherlock was able to find some comfort.

~~

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen in their bedroom that night, but that was not unusual. Sherlock often slept in the smaller room that was reserved for him, and it was not unheard of for him to forget sleep entirely. Mycroft was not discouraged by his brother’s absence. He had hope, even if he ought not to. Even if he would not readily admit to the extent of his hopes, of times they might share in the future.

When Mycroft woke, very early in the morning, he found Gregory still asleep beside him, and Sherlock still nowhere to be seen.

Mycroft took a deep breath. No, there was no reason for concern. There had been no reason for him to think that Sherlock might appear in this room in the morning.

He allowed himself a smile as he glanced at Gregory sleeping comfortably at his side, and then exited the bed, giving in to his indefatigable worry over the wellbeing of his younger brother.

Telling himself he simply missed his brother and wished to see him, which was not untrue, Mycroft dressed, quietly so as not to wake his husband. He left the room, mentally checking the likelihood of all the places where Sherlock might be.

Though Sherlock sometimes did not bother to sleep, when he did finally resign himself to the necessity, he would generally do so in a bed. Because of this, Mycroft was surprised to find Sherlock curled up asleep in the study on an armchair, a blanket tossed about him and a hard book held to his chest as if it were a soft pillow.

It was touching to see the unguarded look on Sherlock’s face as he slept with a book he evidently cherished, but the big brother in Mycroft could not sit idly by while Sherlock continued to remain in what could not be the most comfortable position. He leaned close, lightly touched Sherlock’s shoulder, and said softly, “Sherlock?”

Mycroft smiled peacefully as he watched his brother slowly begin to stir. He would help Sherlock to a proper bed, and perhaps rest with him. Possibly, they could read together, Mycroft’s arm around Sherlock, as when Sherlock was little.

Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he looked at his brother—and then he looked away. No words were forthcoming.

Something in Mycroft turned icy cold.

It was unfortunate enough if Sherlock was upset, but it must be terrible if Sherlock turned away from him. His brother tended to reveal his disapproval in more vocal, expressive forms.

“Sherlock?” This time, the name was said more urgently. “I pray I did not disturb you. I only wished to help you out of the uncomfortable position you seem to have fallen asleep in. Or is something wrong?”

Wrapping the blanket more tightly around him, and also holding the book more tightly, Sherlock hesitated. He merely shook his head.

“Nothing is wrong?” Mycroft pursed his lips for a moment. “You’ll forgive me if I wish to inquire into that further.”

“It’s early, I see.” Sherlock muttered, sparing a glance at the light seeping into the room around a covered window, and completely ignoring what Mycroft had said. “Strange, that you are not with Lestrade.”

It did not escape Mycroft’s notice that Sherlock referred to their husband by his surname, but he decided to comment upon it at another time. “Can I not at least help you to bed?”

“I can find my own way to my private room,” Sherlock answered.

“You may join me and Gregory in the master suite, of course,” Mycroft said, implementing his best effort at nonchalance.

There was a pause. “I am fully aware of that,” Sherlock replied, his voice softer than before, with a tone so unmistakably grateful that Mycroft happily thought that Sherlock would indeed join them. However, Sherlock soon disproved that thought. “Nonetheless, I will be in my private room.”

It seemed that Sherlock had nothing more to say, for he, with the book in tow, walked past Mycroft, leaving his older brother alone in the study.

He stood there, listening as the door was closed behind him, thinking that this was how someone might feel if they had been punched in the chest.

Mycroft had failed.

He had failed to make Sherlock feel at home, had failed to consider Sherlock’s needs—whatever the matter was specifically remained unclear to Mycroft, but he knew that somehow he had failed, and worst of all, he had failed Sherlock. Why else would Sherlock be avoiding him and Gregory like this?

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft said to himself. Sherlock had done so much for him. He had sacrificed himself—at least, it was starting to seem that he had—in order to let Mycroft be happy. Perhaps Sherlock did not want this marriage, and now he was regretting his decision.

It was with these fears that at last Mycroft was driven to leave the study. He thought about seeking out Sherlock, but what more could he hope to accomplish that way? Instead, Mycroft returned to the master suite, where he found Gregory just waking up.

He would have liked to admire his half-asleep, half-dressed Gregory, but that desire reminded him too much of what he had seen when Sherlock had awoken. “I need your help, Gregory.”

“Hmm?” the other man asked, as eloquently as a waking person reasonably could. “Something wrong?”

“I am afraid so. It has to do with Sherlock.”

Gregory moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Apparently, he was completely awake now. “Is he hurt?”

“No, fortunately. Not in any physical sense. Yet I just spoke to him, and he did seem upset.”

“What’s he upset about?”

“He would not tell me.” Mycroft sighed. “That’s often how it is, Gregory. One can hardly blame him. I am not known for being a welcoming and comforting individual.”

“Mycroft, that’s silly. You’re being too hard on yourself. Why don’t you sit down next to me?” Gregory patted the spot next to him on the bed, which Mycroft gratefully took. “There you go.” He put an arm around Mycroft, who leaned helplessly into the supportive embrace. “There you go. We’ll figure this out. So, Sherlock seemed upset. Anything else to go on?”

“He did not tell me about what was bothering him, but he was insistent that I should be with you, and was unwilling to join us here, in this room. I suppose he is not happy being in this household.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Sherlock has sacrificed. Hasn’t he? He gave up his happiness for us, and I let him. How could I let him do that, Gregory?” Mycroft hadn’t intended to say so much, and Gregory seemed sceptical, but once he started on this subject, Mycroft found it difficult to stop. “I truly thought we would be happy together. I thought we all loved each other and…” He had not been expecting it, and had certainly not intended it, but Mycroft heard his own voice start to break. “Was I a fool for thinking that? Did I let my little brother deceive me?”

A hand started to rub his back. “Hey, take it easy.” The touch was soothing, and calmed Mycroft a little. “Everything will be all right. This could be just one little thing. Maybe Sherlock had a bad dream, or something like that.”

“You don’t suppose he is unhappy with this marriage?”

“I don’t think Sherlock would get himself into anything he didn’t want to get into, and, well,” Gregory said honestly, “I know we’ve only been intimate a few times, the three of us together, but I don’t think he was faking anything when it came to those things, do you?”

Mycroft also thought as much, but he could not always trust his own perception when it came to Sherlock. “I suppose not.”

“This was all his plan, you know, and it seemed to me like he was all for it. I’ll tell you what, though; I’ll go check on him, and hear what he has to say. There could be a misunderstanding going on here.”

Mycroft took solace in his husband’s optimism. “Thank you, Gregory. I hope you are right. Though I should add, there was another point that made me wonder about Sherlock’s happiness. He referred to you, in an unfamiliar way, as Lestrade—another sign that he might not feel at home with us here.”

“Well, I’ve noticed that too, actually, and it’s definitely odd. You’d think a couple of husbands could call each other by their given names. And then there’s the fact that the two of you are technically Lestrades, aren’t you? It’s going to get confusing if we’re all formal around here.”

Gregory chuckled, raising Mycroft’s spirits further, and he clasped Mycroft’s hand.

“Don’t you worry, Mycroft. I’ll talk to Sherlock about it.”

Though still concerned for his little brother, Mycroft felt better then, knowing that he had Gregory’s help. He owed this man so much.

~~

Greg couldn’t deny that Sherlock had tricked them into getting married to begin with, but that had only been necessary because of the circumstances surrounding Sherlock and Mycroft, right? It had seemed to Greg that Sherlock wasn’t making any sacrifices. Actually, Greg had thought that Sherlock truly liked his brother and the nobleman as well, even if he wasn’t always very expressive about it. Greg hoped that he hadn’t been wrong.

The door to Sherlock’s room had been left open, so Greg peeked in, softly knocking on the door to announce his presence. “Hey, Sherlock, got a minute?”

Despite the fact that he had a desk and chair at his disposal, Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his legs crossed and a book in his hands.

Sherlock turned slightly and looked up at Greg. Greg expected annoyance at being disturbed, but he was met instead with confusion.

“Shouldn’t you be with Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, knitting his eyebrows.

“What, can’t I pop in and say ‘hello’ to a bloke I’m married to?”

“That is certainly within your rights, though you’d rather be speaking with my brother, I’m sure. He is the one you wished to be married to, after all.”

Astonished, Greg realised that Mycroft might really have cause to be worried. “I tied the knot with you too, didn’t I?”

“So you did, as it was required by the traditions of our family. There have perhaps been a few times when you have been generous enough to include me,” Sherlock said stiffly, “when you probably preferred to be alone with Mycroft, but it is clear that you would on the whole prefer to be associated with only him, and not also an unwanted extra.”

Greg stared at Sherlock for a long moment, and then he closed the door, locking it from the inside.

Putting his book on the floor, Sherlock eyed Greg strangely. “What are you doing?” he asked. Greg had never heard such confusion in Sherlock’s voice before. “What if Mycroft comes looking for you?”

It was clear to Greg now that Sherlock didn’t think he was a valued part of this marriage. He had always thought that Sherlock was very sure of himself, and would not hesitate to demand what he wanted; at this moment, Greg looked at Sherlock, whose gaze was filled with the certainty that he was not wanted, who felt so far away from Greg where he sat on the lonely ground, and started to see just how wrong that belief had been.

“Mycroft’s not going to come looking for me,” Greg told him. “He went for a walk, in fact.” It had been Mycroft’s decision to take a leisurely walk around the garden outside, something Greg hoped would help him relax. “Even if he hadn’t, well, I think you and I are overdue for some private time together, don’t you?”

Sherlock still seemed puzzled. “You want to discuss something with me, then. Do I dress too informally when there are guests? Have my experiments in the garden become a nuisance to you?”

“It’s nothing like that. You haven’t done anything wrong. That’s not what I came here for.”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to talk about you, Sherlock—about how you feel living here. Mycroft seemed to think you weren’t very happy. I’d thought he was wrong, but now… Am I wrong? You did call yourself an ‘unwanted extra.’”

“You’re feeling pity for me, I see,” Sherlock muttered. He rose to his feet, and placed his book on his bedside table. “That’s unfortunate, and a waste of energy on your part. I don’t regret my decisions, Lestrade.” Greg suppressed a shudder at the formal use of his name. “There’s no need for pity. I can take care of myself.”

“This has nothing to do with pity,” Greg said, moving closer to Sherlock, wanting to keep him close. “I’m sure you know how much Mycroft cares about you and misses you.”

Sherlock didn’t turn away from the book on the table.

“And I care about you,” Greg added, his concern growing every second, “and I miss you.”

Slowly, finally, Sherlock turned to face him, eyebrows raised with doubt, but with a small sparkle of hope in his gaze.

“Tell me if this is something you don’t want, Sherlock, but I have a great time with both you and Mycroft. Maybe I’m a selfish man, but things wouldn’t be the same if I didn’t have the two of you. And I’m not just talking about when we’re all in bed, though I’m including that, too.”

“There is… there is n-no need for pity,” Sherlock stammered, his eyes, which still sparkled with hope, darting from Greg to the floor, “didn’t I just say that?”

Once more, Greg dared to take a few more steps closer, until he was close enough to touch Sherlock, though he resisted the urge to do so.

“Did I take things too far with you, Sherlock? I remember what you said to me, in the tavern, about spending nights with me. Did you mean that, or was it all for your brother’s sake?”

Sherlock seemed to consider his words carefully. “You have never… taken things too far.”

Greg took a moment to enjoy the relief he felt. “That’s good.”

“You have the problem all wrong, obviously. Even if I enjoy what time you and Mycroft share with me, the fact is that I should not be here at all.”

How many times did they have to tell Sherlock that he was wanted for it to be believed? It occurred to Greg that he would tell him that many times and more.

“Sherlock, I swear, we want you with us. To be honest, I want you right now. You know, I don’t think we’ve kissed before. You think now’s a good time to give it a try?”

It was impossible to miss the conflicted mess of joy and guilt that suddenly overcame Sherlock. “Oh. Well, yes, but… you couldn’t possibly… want…”

Sherlock trailed off as Greg was guiding the younger man’s face to his own, wondering if Sherlock had always been as adorable as he was now, and shared a kiss with him.

There was a lovely whimper, and a terrific, scandalous joy within Greg. Sherlock was yielding, unpractised, and unexpectedly innocent, certainly different from the intimidating and confident suitor who had first approached Greg in a tavern. It was almost sinful, kissing Mycroft’s precious little brother like this.

“We’ll take care of you, Sherlock,” Greg whispered against Sherlock’s lips.

“Greg,” Sherlock murmured in turn.

“Do you believe me now? I want you here. Mycroft does too.”

“Perhaps... There might be something in what you say,” Sherlock conceded. Though he was still somewhat timid, there was a smirk growing on his face. “It is logical that I remain in this household, I suppose. Mycroft is hopeless without two helpmeets at least.”

Greg smiled, knowing exactly what Sherlock really meant. “You love him a lot, don’t you? Don’t lie to me, I know you do.”

“What a foolish thing to say,” Sherlock muttered, unconvincingly. “Completely foolish.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I love him a lot, too.”

When he said that, Sherlock turned away from him again, but this time, Greg could make out a small smile and a telling blush—features that reminded him of Mycroft’s handsome face, only they belonged to the face that Mycroft had looked after for a very long time.

How could Mycroft trust anyone with Sherlock, who had always been the most dear and precious part of his life?

Suddenly overcome, Greg hugged the younger of his two husbands, needing to hold him for a moment. Fortunately, even if he didn’t understand the reason behind it, Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.

~~

Upon his return to the house, Mycroft was exceedingly pleased to find that Sherlock and Gregory were together. His brother and husband were kneeling in front of the door of the their bedroom, Gregory with thin tools in his hands while Sherlock observed and gave what sounded like instructions.

“Keep the tension wrench steady,” Sherlock was saying, “while you’re raking with the pick.”

“I _am_ keeping it steady,” Gregory mumbled, his concentration firmly on his task. “It’s the lock that doesn’t want to keep steady. I’ll get the hang of this, though, don’t you doubt it.”

“Developing any skill takes time.” It was striking to hear the reassurance that was slipping into Sherlock’s voice. Mycroft did not often hear his brother openly speak in such a way to him, much less to other people. “You’re doing fine, Greg.”

This was astounding and wonderful. Mycroft had heard all he needed to know that the two people who mattered most to him were comfortable in each other’s company, bonding over an activity that, while perhaps questionable, helped to bring them together.

The older Holmes brother felt no need to hide his joy as he approached them, though of course he remained respectable.

“Corrupting dear Gregory already?” he asked, cordially.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the tools in Gregory’s hands, which was understandable, given his role as teacher. “It is hardly corrupting. Lock-picking is a useful skill, and like any other skill, can be used for good or evil.”

“Some skills are more likely to be used for one purpose than the other,” Mycroft noted.

“That depends on who possesses the skill. Don’t you trust Greg?”

“Oh, without question.” Mycroft turned toward his husband. “I doubt if there is a more trustworthy man in the world.”

“Aw,” Greg murmured, setting aside his tools, “you’re so good to me.” He stood up, and touched Mycroft’s hand as they shared an affectionate kiss.

“I love you, Gregory.”

“Mycroft, I love you, too.”

Having become very quiet all of a sudden, Sherlock started walking away.

Mycroft noticed the change in Sherlock immediately, and felt his joy turn to despair. The astounding, wonderful world that Mycroft had just entered had abruptly collapsed. Did Sherlock still feel unwelcome?

Greg seemed to notice as well. “Hey, hold on a minute,” he said, turning in Sherlock’s direction.

Though he did stop and turn back to acknowledge them, Sherlock was far from enthusiastic. “Why should I? Clearly, you did not understand the situation as well as you thought. Mycroft is happy enough with you alone, as you are with him.”

“Slow down a minute,” Greg protested. “Mycroft’s thrilled to see you. Isn’t that right?”

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed. “I love you dearly, brother mine. Have I done something to convey otherwise?”

Sherlock folded his arms, clearly trying to keep his hands from fidgeting. It was startling to Mycroft to see such nervousness from his younger brother. “No. Forget I said anything.”

“I think not. Do not pretend that this is anything new, Sherlock. You have been distant lately. Would you tell me what has been bothering you?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine. Excuse me. I have an experiment in the garden to check on.”

Without another word, Sherlock left them, striding down the hallway to parts unknown. Mycroft could not recall seeing any experiment in the garden during his walk outside.

When Sherlock was gone, Mycroft was left at a loss, once again.

As was Gregory, it seemed. “I thought we’d made some real progress,” he said. “Seems like I was wrong.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“Yeah, and it really did seem like he was starting to come around. Sherlock said he didn’t think he was wanted here, and of course I told him that’s rubbish. We, um,” Gregory stuttered, looking very endearing with his hand behind his neck, “we kissed. Well, I kissed him, but it was fine! I don’t want you thinking I took advantage of your baby brother. I asked him first, and he seemed to enjoy it—”

“Gregory, I assure you, that is perfectly fine.” Mycroft relished the thought of it almost too much.

Gregory sighed with relief. “Great.” He glanced down the hallway, and the recollection of Sherlock’s unhappy mood obviously swept away his relief. “Poor Sherlock. I think he still doesn’t think he’s welcome. He must be really shy.”

“Sherlock, shy?” Mycroft asked incredulously, and yet, that seemed to describe Sherlock’s recent behaviour fairly well. Now that Sherlock’s plan had been fulfilled and his task of pairing off Mycroft and the nobleman completed, Mycroft had what he wanted. Did that mean that it was Sherlock who lived with uncertainties and knowing what he could not have?

“Gregory… How do we help him feel more welcome?” Mycroft shook his head, defeated. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe he doesn’t want to be welcome, after all.” Thoughts of Sherlock accepting a life he did not want for Mycroft’s sake were quickly becoming too terrible to bear. “Oh, this is too much for me.” Feeling drained, he walked into their bedroom, and sat on the bed.

Gregory followed him instantly. “Mycroft, are you all right?”

“How can I be, if Sherlock is not?”

Gently wrapping his arms around Mycroft, kissing him on the forehead, Gregory sighed.

“You two are so devoted to each other, I can’t believe it sometimes. I think I understand how Sherlock feels. Seeing that you two care about each other so much, it’s hard not to think that I’m just an intruder in the relationship that matters.”

“My dear Gregory.” Looking up from where he sat, Mycroft touched Gregory’s hand. “You both matter to me. More than I can say.”

They shared a kiss. It started as a short kiss, but Mycroft needed more, and Gregory gladly gave it to him. Their arms came around each other, and their heads tilted as their kiss deepened. It became a long, passionate affair that had them falling back on the bed in a tumble of much-needed comfort and support.

There was a quiet sound by the door.

It was so low that Mycroft almost missed it, especially since another matter occupied him. He might have dismissed the sound, except that he had heard the same thing before.

This time, Mycroft knew the noise was not an echo. He recognised it for what it was.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, drawing back and breathing heavily, “Sherlock is behind the door.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“I heard a noise. I think it’s him.”

“Then why doesn’t he come in? Oh, he probably doesn’t think he can. But that means he wants to, right?”

The optimistic tone in his husband’s voice spurred Mycroft on. “Let us hope so.” He cleared his throat, and then called out, “Sherlock? Are you behind the door?”

A low, dejected voice sighed.

“Why are you asking if you already know the answer?”

“Sherlock,” Greg said, “you’re on the wrong side of the door.” He climbed away from the bed, and was next seen guiding a passive Sherlock into the room.

“I know I shouldn’t have been there,” Sherlock murmured. “I can leave now. I should have left by now, anyway.”

“Did you enjoy our kiss, brother mine?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything to that, though the silence gave Mycroft a chance to assess his brother, who was looking very flushed and unmistakably affected by what had transpired. It was flattering, having had such a profound effect when Sherlock could not have witnessed a great deal from behind the door.

“Gregory, I’m afraid Sherlock did not get to see very much. Would you be agreeable to kissing again, for him?”

Mycroft could hardly believe his own words, though he liked them very much, and so did Greg, judging by his grin.

“That sounds fair.”

Sherlock was staring at them, speechless.

This way, Mycroft thought, they could at least show how comfortable they were with Sherlock’s presence.

That might been the intention that Mycroft started with, but that coherent thought was lost as soon as he was in Gregory’s arms again, kissing him, feeling the surge of want within him for more of his beloved, which was magnified unimaginably by the few whimpers he heard from his younger brother.

Gregory was spurred on as well, and caught up in each other and Sherlock, they ground against each other, kissing endlessly, doing everything they possibly could do to be close to one another and serve as a pleasant sight for Sherlock.

Did Sherlock notice the effect that he was having on them, simply by being in the room?

“W-What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked, leaning on the edge of the bed.

“What,” Mycroft started, his low voice startling to himself and to Sherlock as well, “what would you like us to do, brother mine?”

“We’re only too happy to do it, Sherlock,” Gregory breathed, “just say the word.”

Sherlock faltered.

“Please.” Mycroft looked at Sherlock directly, who was too shy—it was unmistakable now, how shy Sherlock was—to meet his gaze. “Please, Sherlock.”

“You don’t mean this. Any of this.” Sherlock scoffed, at the sheets he was staring at.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “You don’t need to decide anything. Just, please, don’t leave?”

Desperate with love for the two other people in this room, Mycroft’s eyes were heated when he beheld Gregory once more, smouldering eyes met him back, and in a few hasty moments of murmuring and undressing, Mycroft was sinking down on his husband, savouring the taste of his beloved, right in front of Sherlock.

Gregory moaned deeply, trembling when Mycroft groaned in appreciation and hummed with affection, doing everything in his power to make this good for his brother.

As he closed his eyes to better focus on satisfying Gregory and pleasing Sherlock, he felt a hand steal into his own, and though this hand was trembling, he knew the feel of the skin on his own too well to mistake it for anything other than the hand he held when they were both very young, taking their first walks together on the boardwalk over a stream.

~~

Sherlock decided that he didn’t mind family tradition, after all.

With Greg writing at a desk across the hall, Mycroft cleaning a pair of boots in another room, and an engaging book in his lap, Sherlock found this wasn’t a hard decision. The people he cherished were with him, going about their business in the same place as him, sometimes walking by and saying hello, as if there were nothing strange about it. For some reason, they seemed to accept Sherlock’s presence.

They had accepted him in so many ways. They kept him regardless of the fact that they did not need him. Sherlock did not know what he had done to earn such good fortune.

He was at home here. Sherlock did not doubt that any longer. He had two people who wanted to share their lives with him, and that was extraordinary. Grateful for all that they had given him, he was also excited for what was to come.

Sherlock turned the page in his book, appreciating this new chapter of his life as the pirate in his novel embarked on a new adventure.

End~


End file.
